


Surrender

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Eyeshield 21
Genre: Comfort/Angst, Inline with canon, M/M, Men Crying, No Plot/Plotless, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-12
Updated: 2014-09-12
Packaged: 2018-02-13 21:00:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2164980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There’s something like shattered glass in the look Hiruma’s giving Musashi instead of his usual burning intensity. Musashi doesn’t know what it was that broke, to leave those shards so clear in Hiruma’s gaze, or when, if it’s fault or credit that he deserves, if either are his to own at all." Musashi has a realization, and offers an apology, and Hiruma cracks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Surrender

Musashi knows better than to mention it before he and Hiruma are alone. He’s not sure what Hiruma is going to  _do_ , if he’s going to get a punch or a kiss or a laugh for his trouble, and of those options he’s certain Hiruma would hate an audience exactly as much as he would. So he stalls. He doesn’t realize he’s playing with the kick tee, turning the hard patterned rubber over and over and over in his fingers, but the idle motion speeds the time and the post-game conversations and the diamond-hard sparkle of Hiruma’s leadership persona. By the time the other boy draws his pace slow to fall behind the rest of the team, Musashi’s fingers are starting to put up a dull, aching protest to the scrape of texture over his calluses.

“Whaddya want?” Hiruma asks. The words are typical Hiruma, sharp as his teeth and razor-bright with an unworded threat, but his eyes are wrong, there’s something like shattered glass in the look he’s giving Musashi instead of his usual burning intensity. Musashi doesn’t know what it was that broke, to leave those shards so clear in Hiruma’s gaze, or when, if it’s fault or credit that he deserves, if either are his to own at all.

There are too many things Musashi wants to say, an excess of words and a lack of coherency stopping his throat, and he’s certain every one of them is more sincere than Hiruma will stand. His fingers tighten, the ache over his fingertips sinks a little deeper, and the dull pain brings a flash of curiosity and inspiration at once.

“Have you had this with you the whole game?”

Hiruma’s eyes snaps up to the tee as Musashi holds it up, the shift enough to free Musashi to catch a real breath out from under the pressure of the other boy’s unreadable expression. He blinks so hard it looks like a flinch, though the rest of his expression doesn’t flicker; then his mouth twists wide and vicious, and his eyes come back to Musashi’s.

“Of course.” Hiruma’s weight shifts so he’s tipped sideways, one hand comes up so he can hook a long finger into the edge of his uniform pants. Musashi can see the tension in his fingers draw them awkward and angular as he push the fabric down to bare an inch of skin, taps a finger against his hip to indicate where he was keeping the tee. “I was ready for you whenever you decided to come back.”

There’s no judgment in his tone. Musashi doesn’t know how Hiruma can manage to sound so vicious most of the time and now, when his listener  _deserves_  aggression, turns his voice almost soft just by contrast to his usual attack. Hiruma’s eyes are still shining with emotion of a different vein than that he usually displays; it’s hard to watch, easier to follow the arrow of his fingers down to glance at the pale stripe of skin at his hip, even if that has its own dangers.

Except it’s not that pale. Musashi blinks, squints; then he steps in fast, spans the distance to Hiruma with a pair of long strides. The blond doesn’t move away at all -- of course he doesn’t, he’s never backed down from anything that Musashi has known -- even when the other boy pushes his fingers away so he can see the bruise rising dark over Hiruma’s bony hip. There’s a scrape across the skin, just deep enough to draw two droplets of blood seeping in the top corner of the bruise.

“When you got tackled,” Musashi says, more in confirmation than as a question. He’s sure Hiruma’s got plenty of other bruises -- it’s a standard part of the game, after all, even the quarterback gets tackled sometimes -- but it’s a different matter altogether to recognize the neat square shape of this one, to see the texture of the hard rubber in Musashi’s fingers printed like a stamp on Hiruma’s skin. The darkness of the bruise is highlighting the scars over the top, too, offset images of scratches and cuts all in that same geometric shape, making an off-center grid of the blond’s hip.

“Jesus,” Musashi says, shocked into breathlessness. “How many times did you fall on this?”

“A few times a game,” Hiruma says, and that is a dodge, Musashi knows Hiruma has the exact number in his head, but he doesn’t push. “You kept me waiting.”

Musashi looks up. Hiruma’s very close, he hadn’t realized quite how close they were standing. Musashi can see the dark line of his eyelashes outlining that uncanny broken look in his gaze, the lack of any retreat in his expression, and all the heat of Musashi’s body rushes warm into the tips of the fingers still touching against Hiruma’s skin. His heartbeat thuds loud in his head, his mouth tingles into bright expectation, and when he speaks he’s not sure what he’s going to say until his lips form around the words “I’m sorry.”

Hiruma’s expression doesn’t shift at all. Musashi’s not sure what it is he is seeing that tells him something is wrong, until he blinks and realizes Hiruma hasn’t, that Hiruma’s face has gone utterly still like it’s a wall to hide behind.

“Hiruma?” Musashi hasn’t lifted his hand away; it feels like Hiruma’s skin is magnetic, though he can’t decide if he’s pushing against the force or giving in to it.

Hiruma blinks, and takes a breath desperately fast, and then he’s pulling away, jerking sideways and twisting so his back is to Musashi. For a moment Musashi is left with his hand chilling in midair, feeling like Hiruma’s punched him. Then there’s a sound from the other boy, an awful grating sound like he can’t catch air, and when Musashi sees the tremor tear through his shoulders he realizes Hiruma is  _crying_.

“Oh god,” he blurts, and in the first moment of shocked disbelief he moves forward instead of away, reaches out to grab a fistful of Hiruma’s uniform. The other boy jerks against the hold, tries to break free, but Musashi maintains his grip, pulls the blond around to face him. Hiruma’s hands are covering his face, he’s rubbing his wrists viciously across his eyes, but his mouth is open around gasping sobs, tearing so unwilling from his throat that each one sounds like a battle.

“Jesus,” Musashi says again, and pulls Hiruma in against him. He’s more than expecting the elbow that digs into his arm, half involuntary and half deliberate attempt to push him away, but Hiruma’s sobs are losing that first violent edge, the aggression of his emotion is running through him instead of waging a war against his failing resistance. The fist that lands on Musashi’s shoulder is barely a shove at all, and when Musashi doesn’t release his hold Hiruma’s fingers relax, just enough for the last two to catch at his shirt in not-quite a hold.

“It’s okay,” Musashi says. It’s not; Hiruma’s skin is bleeding evidence that it’s not and the tears soaking through Musashi’s shoulder are providing the final argument, but when he says it it sounds so true he says it again, just to taste the words on his tongue. “It’s okay.” Hiruma doesn’t react when Musashi gently slides his fingers over his hair, but the hand at the other boy’s shoulder is entirely relaxed now, all his fingers spread out over Musashi’s shirt, and he’s audibly breathing around his sobs instead of against them. Musashi shifts his hold, wraps his arm around Hiruma’s shoulders to keep him steady, and a little more of the tension cracks away from the blond’s body as he leans in closer against the other boy’s support. Musashi stares unseeing at the now-empty field, waits for Hiruma to cry out months of repressed reaction while his fingers tighten unconsciously against the kick tee still clutched in his hand. Hiruma’s warm against him, the humming tension of his frame relaxing into shaking relief, and when Musashi takes a breath he can taste the nostalgic familiarity of the field on his tongue.

“It’s okay,” he says again, and this time it is.


End file.
